


What You Don't Admit

by dragonflower1



Category: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Dream Invasion, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Pre-Slash, Self-Discovery, Self-Reflection, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vampirism, Worldbuilding, awakening sexual desire, dark fae - Freeform, implied/referenced blood-drinking, implied/referenced violence against women, the conditions of Tarrant's immortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 19:24:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17049152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonflower1/pseuds/dragonflower1
Summary: Halfway across the Novatlantic on their way to the Eastern Continent, the Hunter stumbles upon an unexpected loophole in his compact with the Nameless, when he makes stunning realizations about himself and the changing nature of his relationship with Damien Vryce.The story is set near the beginning of book two,When True Night Falls.A/N:  Although I tagged this fic with a Rape/Non-Con warning, there is no actual, present-day non-con in it.  However, there are references to past mind control and non-con situations which could possibly trigger.  I have included specific tags for clarity.  Please take the time to read them.Disclaimer:  This is a transformative, non-commercial work of fanfiction.  The characters of Damien Vryce and Gerald Tarrant are the sole invention and property of C.S. Friedman.





	What You Don't Admit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



> Thank you for giving me the opportunity to write in the Coldfire Trilogy fandom! I've been wanting to do so forever, but never quite got around to it. I've always loved the dynamic between Gerald and Damien, so I was thrilled for the chance to explore it a little. Now that I've waded in, I'm sure I'll be back.
> 
> And thank you, as well, for the fantastic letter you provided! It was a wealth of information that was definitely appreciated. I found that a lot of the things you like about this fandom coincided beautifully with what I wanted to write about, so the story was really a joy and a pleasure to write. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed creating it for you! Happy Yuletide!
> 
> Lastly, a big thanks to PuddleJ for the beta. Any remaining errors are mine.

Swaying to the gentle rhythm of the merchant vessel, the _Golden Glory_ , as she cut through the choppy waters of the Novatlantic, a lantern hung from an iron ring fastened to the bulkhead in a makeshift, below-deck cabin. Its feeble light barely pierced the dense shadows of the otherwise windowless quarters in which it burned, allowing True Night to reign supreme and its malignance to press menacingly in on the tiny, caged flame from all sides. Helpless against the blackness that threatened to swallow it whole, the stubby candle shuddered in its glass prison, perpetually teetering on the brink of extinction like a desperate man cornered by hungry demons. 

While the light struggled to hold its own like a flicker of hope in an unforgiving sea of despair, the carefully-cultivated dark fae that permeated the rest of the stateroom dripped in questing, ropy tendrils from the overhead beams and surged in undulating ripples across the floor. The polluted tide lapped at table legs and discarded boots alike, and filled the unlit corners with swirling currents of malevolent, violet energy. 

The sinister forces could be felt outside the unfortunate compartment, as well. In spite of the stout, metal-banded wooden door and multiple protective wards, their icy chill seeped into the passageway like an ill wind and lingered ominously, striking unreasoning, soul-deep panic in anyone who drew near. On a ship whose passengers were, by and large, dedicated to the One God, the cabin’s presence was a terrifying aberration that kept them out of the hold unless absolute necessity dictated that they were required to descend, to see to livestock or check on cargo. 

Meanwhile, within its warded walls, the meagre illumination fell upon the built-in bunk and its occupant: a lone figure, who sat cross-legged on the bed in undertunic and leggings, seemingly unaffected by either the temperature or the creeping evil that surrounded it. Shoulder length golden-brown hair gleamed like fine silk in the faint light while the aristocratic face it framed was cast in shadow as it bent over an open book. 

The peaceful tableau was shattered an instant later, when Gerald Tarrant glanced up sharply from the page he was reading with a rapacious gleam in his eyes. He tilted his head slightly as he felt a second subliminal tug through the bond he and his traveling companion, Father Damien Vryce, shared, indicating that the man was rising from deep sleep to a dream state. The Hunter’s attractive, fine-boned features shifted minimally in the candlelight as the ghost of a smile played at the edges of his pale lips. He’d been waiting for this ever since the good Reverend had bid him good night a few hours earlier. Brushing back a strand of hair that had dared to fall across his forehead, Tarrant let his fathomless silver eyes slip shut for a moment, the better to revel in the first faint stirrings of the priest’s mind.

_It’s almost time._

Carefully laying a length of ancient satin ribbon as colorless as his long fingers in the vellum page, Gerald reverently closed the book and set it aside. It was a slim tome of Revivalist poetry - one of Almea’s favorites - that he’d selected from his vast library almost four mid-months earlier, the same evening he’d left the Forest to make his way to the coast. 

Rubbing his palms together in an unguarded gesture of anticipation, Tarrant swung his legs over the edge of the bunk and rose with a predator’s grace. He automatically ran a slender hand lightly down the front of his loose, knee-length shirt, doling out just enough fae to iron out the wrinkles in the linen as he padded barefoot across the dimly-lit cabin and sank into the heavy alteroak chair that resided next to the table in the middle of the room. Both pieces of furniture had been gifts from the Captain for the duration of the journey, offered from his own stateroom in subtle apology for the hastily-constructed accommodations the crew had had to cobble together at the last minute to the Neocount’s exacting specifications. 

Now he gripped the ornately-carved arms of the throne-like seat so tightly the wood creaked, as he struggled with the hunger that clawed at his innards and pushed him to the edge of his frayed control.

Although Vryce had been his willing victim since they’d left Faraday’s harbor on their way to the Eastern Continent, the priest’s considerable courage in the face of danger – a plus when they were fighting side-by-side – was a detriment when it came to feeding. It had been easy, early on, corrupting the man’s dreams and turning them into nightmares, but more recently, Tarrant had been expending almost as much energy to induce night terrors sufficient to frighten the man as he gained from the experience. And although the priest’s fear, when it came, was nourishing on a very basic level, Gerald found the fare thin and vaguely unsatisfying. 

To make matters worse, there were several fair-skinned, dark-haired young women aboard the vessel who were just the kind the Hunter preferred, enticing him almost beyond his endurance with their fragile piety, their soft, defenseless bodies and the lush, potent fear he could smell rising from their skin like perfume whenever he walked by. Lately it was taking more and more of his hard-won willpower just to keep from luring one of them into his cabin and feasting as his nature demanded, on blood and terror and death. If he wasn’t all but certain that Vryce would find a way to expose him to sunlight while he slept if he were to give in to such a vile yet intoxicating temptation, Tarrant would have done so long before now. As it was, he was well aware that he could only push the priest so far before they ran up against the sharp edges of Damien’s overwrought conscience, and the last thing Gerald wanted to do was make an enemy of a man that he’d come to think of as an ally, dare he even go so far as to say - a friend. 

Forcefully banishing all thoughts of the women’s almost-irresistible vulnerability from his mind, Tarrant viciously wrenched his focus back to the task at-hand. Knowing that he couldn’t trust himself to connect with Vryce in his current state-of-mind without doing permanent damage, the Neocount took a long moment to wrestle the darkest of his desires back into their box. When he’d managed to temporarily regain the upper hand with his rapidly escalating appetite, he turned his attention to opening the channel between himself and the slumbering priest, and invaded the man’s mind. 

With a light, skilful touch, he dove into Vryce's subconscious, gathering some of the half-formed ideas that shimmered on the surface like an oil slick on water as he passed. Miscellaneous worries and concerns of the day that Tarrant planned on weaving into the priest's active imagination. 

His own thoughts were honed to a razor's edge as he descended, until he found himself surrounded by vague impressions of characters and settings - at once bright yet indistinct - which sprang from the depths of Vryce's psyche. Who the players were and what they were acting out would become more important later in the night, when the man’s dreams were longer and more elaborate, and Gerald was in a position to exert his influence. This early, it was more important for the Hunter to establish rapport; that he take control of the priest's mind and begin to warp it for his own purposes while Vryce’s brain activity was heightened.

Easier said than done, when one actually cared whether his victim awoke with all their mental faculties intact. 

At best, it was a balancing act of coaxing and cajoling. And if Tarrant pressed a little too hard in his eagerness to feed, as he’d done on occasion, Vryce would awaken and they'd have to start all over again. After they were in sync, he could begin to incite the man's fear in earnest and prolong the night terrors indefinitely, but not until he'd laid the groundwork that had to be built anew every evening, and could only be done while the priest's subconscious mind was active. If he missed this opportunity, he'd be forced to wait until the next dream cycle. 

A sense of urgency bubbled below the surface of the Hunter’s skin as he set to work, seeking the path of least resistance to the man’s innermost being. So intent was he on perverting Vryce’s defenseless mind, Gerald didn’t immediately notice the images around him coalescing and intensifying – taking on weight and substance. Not until they crested, and feelings not his own began pouring through the soul-bond, flooding his consciousness with emotions whose expression he’d thought had been blasted from his lexicon the night he’d sacrificed his beloved wife and children to the darkness. Powerless against the invasion that stormed his defenses, his sabotage came to an abrupt, stunned halt as his mind was swamped in the deluge. 

Suddenly, he was in a large, stately bedroom, dark except for the fire flickering behind the grate of a massive numarble fireplace which took up most of the opposite wall. Dazed, he automatically scanned the chamber. Despite the low light, he was able to pick out details of the handsome, high-end furnishings that adorned the space. The glint of crystal knobs on a bureau in the corner, the texture of fine brocade upholstery fabric covering a pair of chairs by the shuttered window, the intricate carving of the nearest post that graced the four-poster bed beside him, now devoid of bedding. 

From where he stood, he could also see the silhouettes of two people lying naked in front of the fireplace, rutting and rubbing against each other wantonly in a bower of blankets and pillows piled before the hearth. Their faces hidden in shadows so deep even Tarrant’s keen gaze could not penetrate, a hazy glow played over sweat-slicked skin as it gleamed in the firelight, glancing off the tangle of calves and knees intimately intertwined, the slope of a smooth back being caressed by a strong hand, the appealing roundness of muscular buttocks, flexing rhythmically with the urgent, steady rocking of hips. 

Captivated by the eroticism of the moment he’d unexpectedly been submerged in and blindsided by the assault on his emotions, the Hunter could do little more than arch in surprise when a strange, sluggish jolt of arousal caught him unawares. Head and shoulders pressed against the unforgiving wood of the high-backed chair as it shot through him unchecked, lighting up forgotten pathways until its unfamiliar heat finally coiled in his gut and his body responded with a long-suppressed – he’d though unattainable – stirring in his loins. 

Not that he hadn’t craved release in the past nine hundred years – or experienced it. He had, often - and in abundance, although like all his instincts, his urges had been warped to encompass the satiation of his unnatural hunger. The exquisite sensations that rippled through his being at the completion of every Hunt, when the last drop of terror – as rich and thick and sweet as he could inspire – had been wrung from his dying victim and savored to its utmost, often left him swooning in ecstasy for hours afterwards. It was the sheer physicality of the lust that gripped him now, stiffening him so effortlessly after so long, that set off warning bells in his head. 

All Workings of Life were forbidden to him under his compact with the Nameless Ones. He’d always assumed that had included acts of procreation as well, and his lack of overt sexual response to any of the women he’d tortured and killed over the centuries, attractive in face and form though they’d been, had seemed to bear this out. Although he’d appreciated each one’s unique beauty like they were pieces of fine porcelain – and relished breaking them in the same vein - he never _desired_ them. Even with the Lady Ciani, who’d submitted to him in a bond almost as profound as that which he shared with Reverend Vryce, he’d only ever felt the protectiveness any Master would feel toward their Apprentice. For all that the Loremaster had been not only brilliant but lovely to behold, and Vryce had been jealous - almost comically so - of their relationship, and concerned that Tarrant might take advantage, Mes Faraday had nothing to fear on that account. 

And now here he was, gawking like an awkward adolescent stumbling upon his first glimpse of adult intimacy, simultaneously drawn in by the sensual abandon of the participants and mildly amused to find such an unabashedly erotic scene playing out in the priest’s dreamscape. 

He’d always held himself aloof from Vryce’s very-human sexual responses before now, telling himself he was unaffected by the faint whiffs of pheromones and the bulge neither of them mentioned, that always strained the man’s trousers after the infrequent-but-occasionally-necessary closeness required for a bloodletting. It was as much to keep his distance from the tantalizing cues of surrender that beat against the bloodlust he kept chained and subdued by sheer force of will, as it was to spare himself from the stammered apologies and embarrassment he imagined the priest would offer if it were to be acknowledged.

While the idea of watching Vryce squirm for any reason pleased him, and the thought of the other’s shame-flushed cheeks and inept attempts to hide his rather obvious and ill-timed erection, in particular, might be… appealing, they were unnecessary. As the Hunter, he’d elicited that sort of response from his quarry countless times over the course of his long life. For Tarrant, it was nothing unusual; in fact, it was to be expected. 

Much like the faeborn vampires that humanity’s darkest fears and desires spawned – the mindless, ravening undead the Nameless had intended him to be – he had the ability to lure potential prey to him. With very little effort, he could ratchet up the seductive menace he radiated to near-hypnotic levels, rendering his victims’ wills tractable, their flesh eager for his touch, all the while leaving their consciousness free to look on in impotent horror at actions they could not control and events they were powerless to stop. It was a talent that had literally kept his unnaturally-preserved body and damned soul together in the early years of his transformation, before he’d discovered he could draw nourishment from emotions like the Iezu - and one he found invaluable even to this day. On the now-rare occasion when a Hunt culminated in exsanguination, it was still just as satisfying to be able to subtly manipulate an exhausted, half-crazed young woman into begging for him in the end despite the extremity of her terror. 

Although it was a trick he’d never actively employed with Vryce – the man had agreed to the arrangement of his own free will, after all - it was such an integral part of the Hunter’s makeup that it often flowed like an inviting undercurrent through the connection they shared, regardless, whenever he fed. Now it seemed the tables had been turned, and he found himself on the receiving end of a similar compulsion. Albeit as unintentional as his own where the priest was concerned, it was nonetheless as beguiling as any Tarrant had ever cast – and just as powerful. 

Drawn to the mating couple like a proverbial moth to a flame, whatever concerns Gerald had about maintaining his dispassionate façade were subsumed by his fascination with what the man’s lust was doing to him. Curious to see what manner of salacious sexual scenario could create such an intense reaction in the good Reverend independent of the Hunter’s influence, he hazarded a step closer, then another.

He didn't realize his mistake until he drew nigh, but by then it was already too late. With proximity came a tsunami of sensations that tore the lid off his control, and he ground to a shuddering stop as all of his senses were suddenly overwhelmed. Hunger sliced through him like a knife, hot and agonizing, as he caught the tempting scent of the pair’s combined musk and tasted the salt of their sweat in the heated air. He could hear their soft, labored breaths over the crackle of the nearby flames – their low, impassioned moans of pleasure and encouragement. He could have knelt and stretched out a hand to caress their glistening flesh, if he so chose. 

Combined with the unbridled affection pouring through the open conduit from the priest’s subconscious, threatening to unmake him with every pulsating wave that crashed over him, he was nearly insensible by the time his night-sensitive eyes adjusted to the glare of the fire. As his gaze sharpened, the familiar planes and angles that made up Vryce’s face swam into view. The darkness that was the man’s beard hid the lower half of his upturned face while the uncertain firelight highlighted the bee-stung redness of well-kissed lips, the curve of a high, wide cheekbone. It reflected in his dark, kind eyes, the avid gleam of them in the shadows the same as that which Tarrant had contemplated countless times across innumerable campfires. 

_Of course,_ Gerald mused, his pale lips twisting into the tense parody of a smirk as he struggled to regain his equilibrium. It was as he’d suspected all along. This had to be either a cherished fantasy of Vryce's or a memory of a past dalliance. After months at sea, and the priest’s fizzled on-board romance with the ship’s navigator, the Hunter was surprised he hadn’t stumbled across one of these carnal nocturnal interludes before. The few times he’d previously encountered anything that even approached erotica, it had been little more than a few half-formed images – ephemeral flickers of dawning lust, boring in their predictability and easily dismissed. 

Even as Tarrant’s grin widened in droll amusement at the pedestrian tenor of his companion’s sexual fantasies, Vryce shifted so that the light fell more fully on his features. At the sight of the man’s face, the Neocount’s hard-won composure crumbled and his head rocked back like he’d been struck, his smile freezing into a rictus grin as a hiss forced its way past sharp teeth. The priest’s expression was one he’d never seen before, so full of raw, unfiltered tenderness and passion that it was hard to look at directly - and yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Vryce’s visage practically shone with it as he gazed up at his partner, whose identity was still hidden by a fall of silky light-brown hair; lost in such absolute devotion that the Hunter’s body suddenly clenched with a traitorous surge of jealousy and want, and several other emotions he didn’t care to examine as they shot through him, so immediate and intense he could scarce draw breath.

He sagged when the frisson passed, and the truth he’d been dancing around for months finally became an inescapable fact. He found the man attractive – desired him physically, in a way he’d thought was forever beyond him. Had, in fact, since the first night he’d laid eyes on Damien Vryce and his companions, when they’d invaded his solitude in the dae at Briand and the priest’s bold attempt at Knowing him from across the room had piqued his interest. 

Not that he’d ever admit that to Vryce. He could scarcely bring himself to acknowledge it for fear of violating the terms of the complicated agreement that had defined his existence for the past nine hundred years. But on the other hand, how could he not? 

A warrior priest of his own order, Reverend Vryce was the living embodiment of what the Prophet had set in motion all those centuries ago. Wielding magic and faith with equal fervor, Vryce represented the pinnacle of what Gerald had always hoped the Church would become – what he, himself, had ultimately been condemned for. But more than that, the priest was a veritable mountain of muscle, and with his light skin and dark hair, which the Hunter had always been partial to, coupled with his ready wit and sharp tongue, the man was both a pleasure to look at and a joy to debate.

And perhaps that was the key – the loophole through which he found himself slipping after the abstinence of almost a millennium: Damien was a _man_. Male, as Tarrant was himself. That meant the desire Gerald contended with had nothing to do with procreation. While the act, itself, might mimic that which led to new life, no progeny would ever come of it. In that regard, the lust he felt rising in response to the slumbering priest’s was as unnatural as all of his other appetites and, just possibly, might be the distinction which now allowed it to fall within the parameters of his contract.

Add to that the fact that the good Reverend was a holy man, a Priest of the One God of Earth and Erna. To seduce him physically as Tarrant had been subtly doing on the mental and emotional levels since the beginning would be to compromise the man even further; to bring him one step closer to the total corruption of his moral compass which Gerald knew was Vryce’s worst fear. Either way, it was a delicious win-win situation for the Hunter. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” he chided gently, “you’re not escaping me that easily.” His tone was soft and almost regretful as he pulled Damien back from the edge with a swift mental tug, just as he sensed the priest’s pleasure peaking, felt the tingling at the base of his own spine which he vaguely recalled often presaged imminent orgasm. As much as he ached to let Vryce tumble over the precipice and take him with him, Tarrant knew that if he allowed the priest his climax, he’d most likely awaken. 

Biting back a growl of frustration, the Adept carefully exerted pressure on his companion’s mind and steered him into darker waters just as the threads of the dream began to unravel and the man slipped from his grasp, plummeting into deeper sleep.

With a wistful sigh, Gerald slowly came back to himself. As he became more aware of his body, he realized he was still clutching the arms of the chair as though his life depended on it, with his head thrown back, his mouth slack with vicarious pleasure, and his thighs fallen open as if to provide access for a lover’s hand. Doing his best to ignore the delectable rub of fabric against sensitized flesh, he brought his knees together as he lifted his head and opened his eyes. 

His mind awhirl with the implications of what this might mean for himself, his compact with the Nameless, and Damien Kilcannon Vryce, the Hunter’s gaze was irresistibly drawn to the tent between his legs, decorously draped in white linen. 

“Well, well,” he murmured with a self-deprecating smirk as he adjusted himself in the chair, straightening up from the slouch he’d slid into. “I never thought I’d see _you_ again.”


End file.
